An Imperfect Canvas
by RemyMcKwakker
Summary: A series of oneshots, ordered chronologically, in the lives of William Brandt and Ethan Hunt. Ethan/Will. [Title changed]
1. i

**All right, everyone. This is my first MI4 fic, as well as my first Ethan/Will thingy, so I'm a bit nervous, hehe. I hope it's not too bad :)**

**The title is an Urdu word meaning "comfort provided by another person". It's one of my favorite Urdu words, and I thought it fit well here. Do let me know what you think of the story :D**

**DISCLAIMER: ****I don't own jack shit, sorry.**

* * *

**Surur**  
~remymckwakker

* * *

**The One Where Brandt Nearly Causes Ethan to Lose His Hand**

Consciousness doesn't come slowly, the way most people think it does. It comes all in a jolt, one that has Ethan Hunt opening his eyes with a large, gasping intake of breath, and attempting to sit up.

_Attempt_ being the keyword in the sentence. As soon as he comes to, he finds himself being pushed back down, a warm, strong hand on his chest and another on his hand. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus, and when they do he finds himself looking up at a smiling Jane. "How are you?" she asks, and Ethan realizes she was the one who pushed him back down.

"I'm okay," he tells her. "No pain, though that's probably the morphine." She nods, and he goes on, "So, how long have I been out?"

"Three and a half days," she answers. "We've been taking shifts staying with you. Benji left half an hour ago."

"How are you guys?" asks Ethan.

"We're doing fine," Jane tells him with another smile. "Better than you, anyway."

He chuckles, then winces as his ribs protest. "And Brandt? Where's Brandt?"

Instead of answering, Jane just nods towards Ethan's side. He follows her gaze to find William Brandt asleep in a chair, with his head and arms resting on the bed near Ethan's arm. He looks absolutely exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and the lines on his face standing out more prominently than usual. "How long has he been here?" asks Ethan, and his voice is surprisingly soft.

"As long as you," answers Jane. "He threw up a storm when they brought you in, demanding to be allowed to stay. They had to give in eventually, mainly because he began threatening them. He's only ever left the room to go to the bathroom or eat. We tried to convince him to go home and rest, but he just refused." Her gaze softens. "I think he blames himself, for you getting hurt."

"That doesn't make sense," says Ethan, perplexed. "He couldn't have prevented what happened in any way."

"I know," replies Jane. "But he's not listening when I tell him so. Benji says he's a stubborn bastard." The corner of her mouth quirks into half a smile. "I'm inclined to agree."

"So he hasn't left? _At all_?" asks Ethan, just to clarify.

Jane nods. "Not once."

Ethan frowns. "I'm going to have words with him when he wakes. When did he fall asleep?"

"I don't know. He was already asleep when I came in. He's exhausted, you know. And HQ keeps calling him, trying to get him to fly down and get back to work. I don't know how he's managed to hold them off for this long."

"Ignoring them, I imagine," snorts Ethan, and then winces again. "Has HQ contacted you?"

She nods. "Yeah. Once you're discharged we're supposed to fly down and submit a full report."

"Funny how they're back up at once, now that it comes to paperwork," grumbles Ethan. "That didn't take too long, did it?"

"They're still working on getting everything back the way it was," Jane tells him. Before she can go on, however, Brandt stirs and wakes.

"Hello," says Ethan pleasantly enough, but Brandt's face goes white. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," mumbles Brandt. "You?"

"I'm fine too," Ethan answers. "Would you mind telling me why you haven't gone home and rested, Brandt?"

"You know, I'd love to," says Brandt, clearly dodging the question. "Just after I come back from the bathroom." He leaves like the hounds of hell are on his heels.

"What's with him?" asks Ethan, nodding at the door.

"I don't know," replies Jane, equally as nonplussed. "He's... sorta not okay?" It comes out as a question.

Ethan nods, and settles back into the pillows as a nurse enters and goes about her duty of asking questions, making sure he's comfortable, and summarizing the extent of his injuries. Soon after a doctor comes, does exactly the same things, and it's only after two hours that Ethan is allowed to rest, once the medical staff is satisfied.

Brandt hasn't returned.

* * *

He doesn't come back until later in the evening, when Jane and Benji are both there. Ethan gets the feeling that he wants to avoid being alone with him, and while he knows the reason, he's not going to bring it up until Brandt does. Some things are better left quiet for a while.

Croatia has taken its toll on Brandt, Ethan knows. It's obvious in the way he won't look Ethan in the eye, or make more than polite, forced conversation with him. It's obvious in how he jokes around with Benji and talks to Jane but does it all half-heartedly. And the cherry on top is when Brandt makes an excuse and leaves just fifteen minutes after he came, saying he needs to go take care of some things.

Ethan doesn't ask, and he doesn't comment, but he also doesn't miss the way Jane's eyebrows draw together in concern, and Benji looks away with what seems to be guilt. He knows, then, about Croatia, and Ethan figures Jane probably does too. And just like him, they're not bringing it up. It's definitely an ugly can of worms.

* * *

He's discharged from hospital a few days later, and he's planning on tracking Brandt down and making him explain, he really is, but he's immediately swept up in a wave of calls from HQ and demands of paperwork and reports and meetings. In fact, he doesn't see Brandt at all until their shared flight back to DC.

They've got the center row, the four of them, with Jane and Ethan in the aisle seats and the other two in the middle, Benji next to Jane and Brandt next to Ethan. Ethan notices how Brandt tries to switch with Benji and Jane, but they both refuse and in the end he's forced to give in and sit next to Ethan.

This is going to be a long flight.

Jane settles down with a book once the plane is in the air, and Benji takes out his laptop, but Brandt tosses and turns in his seat in an attempt to sleep. Ethan watches as he wraps himself in a standard airline blanket and tries to force himself to relax, but it's clearly not working. He wants to intervene but he reminds himself it's not really his business, and so he settles for watching a movie on the inflight entertainment system.

He really does try to focus, but it's hard because next to him Brandt just won't relax and sit still – he's muttering curses under his breath now and practically writhing in his seat. Finally, somewhat irritated but also fascinated, Ethan pauses his movie and says mildly, "Counting sheep helps."

Brandt stops and stares at him. "Sorry, what?"

Ethan chuckles. "Counting sheep helps, when you can't sleep." Brandt still looks confused, so Ethan goes on, "That's what you're trying to do, right? Sleep?"

Brandt nods, somewhat suspiciously. Ethan almost smiles before he remembers that Brandt can probably strangle him right there and make it look like an accident. He's seen what the man is capable of and he doesn't want to be on the wrong side of that.

There is a heavy pause, and then Brandt says, "I've counted 1503 sheep already."

Ethan has no idea what to say to that. If he's counted 1503 sheep and _still_ can't sleep then Ethan doubts there's much he can do other than knocking him out or drugging him – both of which Brandt will probably murder him for once he regains consciousness. Finally, Ethan says, "Okay, then. Try something else."

"Helpful," mutters Brandt sarcastically, but closes his eyes and tries to settle down anyway.

Fifteen minutes later Brandt has finally stopped moving and is stuck in some parody of sleep, one where he stirs and shuffles and his clothing makes irritating noises against the material of the seat, and Ethan tries to ignore him until his head is about to explode. He tries, he really does, but when the scraping of his clothes against the seat gets loud enough to be heard even over his movie, Ethan gives up.

"For the love of God," he mumbles, reaching out to shove Brandt. It doesn't go exactly as planned, though, because the minute his fingers touch Brandt's shoulder Brandt shoots up and before Ethan even knows what's going on, Brandt's got his fingers in a painfully tight hold.

"What are you doing?" hisses Ethan, trying (and failing) to release his fingers.

"I could ask you the same thing," retorts Brandt. Jane and Benji are deliberately ignoring the going-ons in the seats next to theirs, and Ethan kind of hates them for it. His hand is beginning to throb.

"You were being annoying," he huffs, and almost winces at how childish he sounds.

Brandt raises an eyebrow. "I was _asleep_," he points out.

"That's not what it looked like," Ethan tells him, again trying (and again failing) to get his hand back.

"I don't care what it looked like," Brandt replies, his eyebrows furrowing. "Don't attack me in my sleep."

"I wasn't _attacking_," defends Ethan. "I was _trying_ to get you to shut up."

"Once again, I was _asleep_," repeats Brandt, and damn but his anger is making Ethan feel like an idiot. Now that he's awake, Ethan's excuses don't seem that sound. That, and he thinks if Brandt doesn't let go soon he'll have to have that hand amputated, which really isn't good for his career as an IMF agent.

"Whatever, I'm sorry," he finally bites out, hating the words as they leave his mouth. Ethan Hunt does not simply _apologize, _but really, he's attached to that hand. It's his dominant hand. He _needs_ it.

Brandt just nods and relaxes again. "Can I have my hand back?" asks Ethan, resolving to get Brandt back for this, once his hand can function again.

Brandt snorts and releases Ethan's hand, and with a grateful sigh he begins massaging it with his other hand. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Jane trying to suppress a smile, and he makes a mental note to get back at her too. Maybe at the same time as he gets back at Brandt. Five seconds later he adds Benji to his list when the techie begins grinning.

He is halfway through his revenge plan (doesn't matter that he probably won't carry it out; it helps pass the time) when Brandt once again begins to move in his sleep, or whatever it is, and Ethan groans mentally. This is getting old. He knows better than to "attack" Brandt though (his hand still hurts), so he opts for lightly laying the same hand on Brandt's shoulder.

Either he's a really nice, considerate guy, or a really big fucking idiot. He just doesn't learn.

He's fully expecting Brandt to snap his fingers this time, but it doesn't happen. Surprised (and not a little apprehensive), he looks down to see Brandt somehow fully relaxed, sleeping soundly and not moving _at all_.

Huh.

How'd that happen?

Was it his hand that did it?

To test his theory, Ethan retracts the aforementioned hand. Brandt tenses, begins to stir. Ethan puts it back on Brandt's shoulder. The analyst relaxes. Ethan raises an eyebrow, does the whole thing over again. This time, Jane finally puts her book down and says, "Stop it."

He raises both eyebrows at her. "Stop what?" Without realizing he takes his hand off Brandt.

"That," she says, gesturing with her book, as Brandt's entire body tenses. "Stop _experimenting_, or whatever it is you're doing. Let him sleep."

"I'm not doing anything," Ethan defends himself, but if Jane's expression is anything to go by, she doesn't believe him.

"Honestly, it's like seeing someone kick a puppy. _Stop it_."

Ethan is beginning to worry that the volume of Jane's angry whispering is going to wake Brandt, and this time he's likely to lose more than just his hand. So he hurriedly puts it back on Brandt, even patting him on the shoulder a little. It has absolutely nothing to do with the kicked puppy thing.

_Absolutely nothing_, and if Ethan hears otherwise he will commit murder.

Jane just shakes her head and goes back to her book. Ethan wonders what's up with her, before turning his head to scrutinize Brandt some more.

The man is fucking _curled in his seat_, looking for all the world like he's on holiday. Ethan hasn't seen him this relaxed since – well, since he woke up in the hospital, and that's not saying much because even then Brandt was wound up tight. Absently he wonders why exactly it's his touch that is helping Brandt sleep, when it's the same hand he nearly ripped off a while back. Maybe it's a subconscious thing.

He adds it to the list of things he's not going to bring up until Brandt does.

* * *

Ethan is in favor of waking Brandt up the moment the flight touches down, but Jane says to let him sleep a little because it's going to take some time before they have to get out, and Brandt needs all the sleep he can get. That he hasn't been resting due to Ethan's hospitalization goes unsaid, and once again Ethan wonders why the hell Brandt didn't find himself a bed and get some sleep. He looked, and still does, like hell warmed over. And that's not a good look for him. Or anyone, really.

Somewhere in the middle of the flight, somehow, Ethan's hand has found its way to Brandt's forehead, and it rests there as Brandt sleeps away peacefully with his head lolling sideways. Ethan wishes he can say it's painful to keep his hand in position for so long, or uncomfortable, or awkward – hell, _anything_ – but it's really not. And that surprises him, because he never expected to be okay with this. And he never expected _Brandt_ to be okay with it, either.

The world is a strange place.

The plane has just come to a stop and people are beginning to get up, and Ethan decides it's okay to wake Brandt now. He removes his hand from Brandt's forehead and gently shakes him, and says, trying to keep his voice soft and non-threatening, "Wake up, Brandt. Time to get off the plane."

Instead of instantly waking and attacking like Ethan expects, Brandt mumbles, "Five more minutes."

"I – okay," sighs Ethan. In any case they're going to get off the plane last, to avoid the hassle of dealing with impatient passengers. Jane is still reading and Benji is humming some song under his breath, laptop stowed away.

Except that when it is time to leave Brandt still refuses to wake up, and Ethan has to resort to poking him in the side. That _does_ elicit a reaction, and Ethan ends up with a sprained wrist. "God _damn_ it, Brandt!" he gasps, cradling his hand.

"Sorry," says Brandt somewhat apologetically, once he realizes what he's done. "I thought you were attacking me again."

"I was _trying_ to wake you up," Ethan tells him through gritted teeth.

"I'm sorry," Brandt says, and he _does_ look sorry. "It's not going to happen again... I hope," he adds as an afterthought.

Ethan rolls his eyes, and Jane laughs. She is quickly making her way up his shit list. So in Benji.

Will is right there on Numero Uno. Ethan's not sure he can ever use his hands again.

They make their way through the airport in silence. No one says anything right until the end. Benji and Jane say their goodbyes and leave in the first cab they find, which leaves Ethan alone with Brandt.

To say this is awkward is an understatement.

"So," begins Ethan. "I've been wanting to ask you something."

Brandt blinks, and then looks away. Ignoring the less than encouraging reaction, Ethan goes on, "When I was in hospital... why didn't you go rest somewhere, a hotel or something?"

There is silence for some time, and just when Ethan is about to throw in the towel and change the subject, Brandt speaks up, "There was nowhere to go." It's a lame excuse and they both know it, and Ethan actually says so.

There is another silence. Brandt fidgets and stares at his shoes for a bit, before finally mumbling, "I felt guilty." That's it. Nothing more.

Hunch confirmed, Ethan is just about to ask exactly _why _he felt guilty, but before he can do so, Brandt's cab arrives and he mutters a hasty "Bye" before getting in and slamming the door. Ethan is about to ask if they can just share the cab, but before he can do so it has already sped off, leaving him standing in the dust thrown up by its wheels.

William Brandt is the greatest mystery Ethan Hunt has encountered, and he is determined to solve it.

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**So- what do you guys think? Feedback is greatly appreciated :)**


	2. ii

**Chapter 2 - I'm afraid it's a bit on the long side. I tried to split it, but it just wasn't working that way. Oh well.**

**Summary: Will's been overworking himself to the point where he's too ill to function. Director Brassel gives Ethan a week to get Will back in shape in time for the field exam. Unfortunately, Will doesn't want to fight, so Ethan makes him fight the only way he knows how... by breaking him.  
**

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**Ethan Hunt - IMF agent and official babysitter to Will Brandt**

* * *

The relief on Brandt's face when Ethan tells him Julia is not dead... it's palpable and overwhelming and Ethan is convinced the only reason Brandt is laughing is so he won't start crying. He's been there himself, when laughing – no matter how fake – is the only thing keeping you from breaking down. To find out that all your self-blame and guilt has been for nothing... He's surprised Brandt hasn't strangled him yet. Or anyone else, for that matter.

Brandt accepts the mission and leaves, thankfully without killing anyone, and Ethan is left alone with his thoughts. Seeing Julia again is nice, it's definitely nice, but the old urge to reconnect with her, to go talk to her again, is gone. He figures it's probably because he knows such a meeting won't end well for either of them. Better to live without her, than live with her and endanger her. One Owen Davian was enough, thank you very much.

He's back in his hotel room for the night, just having gotten into bed, when his phone rings. For a second he thinks he'll let this one go to voicemail, but then he checks caller ID and picks up. It's Brandt. And he doesn't sound so good.

"Ethan, I – I can't come on the mission."

Ethan sits up, no longer sleepy. "What? Why not?"

"I – er, I've got work, Ethan." Is it just him, or does Brandt sound uncertain and hesitant? "Since I was the Chief Analyst before everything went to shit, they want me to, uh, hold off on field work for a bit."

"How long?" asks Ethan, not liking where this is going. Brandt knows everyone who is anyone, and he's got skills as good as Ethan's own, if not better due to experience. There is not a single agent in the IMF who is as fast, strong or smart as Brandt.

There is a long pause. Then Brandt says, "Indefinitely."

Ethan swears. "That's bullshit. Look, Will – can I call you Will? – you're not the only analyst in the entire IMF. _Surely_ there's someone who can help them get IMF back up?"

Brandt – Will – sighs. "Look, I _want_ to be in on the mission, I really do. It's just – there's a lot of work that needs to be done."

"But do _you_ want to do it?" asks Ethan. There is another pause.

"No," Will finally admits quietly. "I don't want to. But I don't have a choice."

"Yes you do," says Ethan forcefully. "Just go talk to someone."

"Who?" asks Will, his tone somewhat bitter. "The only person who actually _liked_ me was the Secretary, and now he's dead. The new Secretary is Fritz Everett, and he's a bit of an asshole. I'm stuck here, Ethan."

"No you're not," Ethan tells him. "They can't just make you stay back, okay? You're a field agent now–"

"Actually, my job description is still analyst," interrupts Will. "Officially, I'm not a field agent."

"Yet," tacks on Ethan when it's obvious that Will won't. "I'm going to go talk to the Director as soon as I can. You're coming on this mission, Will, and that's the end of it."

"Ethan," sighs Will, before giving up. "Okay, do whatever you want." He hangs up, and Ethan is left swearing at the phone.

Some time later the bloody thing beeps again, and Ethan finds a text message waiting. _Will Brandt_, says the name on the screen, and he opens it to find a single word. _No._

_What?_ he texts back.

_You asked if you could call me Will. You can't._

_Why not?_

_Because I said so._

_Well, I'm going to call you Will anyway._

There is an interval of a few minutes, like Will doesn't quite know how to reply. Then, _I know_.

Ethan smiles before putting the phone down. It's almost like they're actually becoming friends. Huh.

His last thought before he falls asleep is how he's going to convince Director Brassel to let Will back into the field.

* * *

Will rubs his eyes and blinks at the computer. The screen is wavy and much too fucking bright, and he literally cannot remember the last time he had something other than coffee. _Not a good thing_, he thinks absently, but if he gets up even for simple things like food he knows he'll collapse on the floor.

And if anyone finds him that way he's going to commit homicide first, and then suicide.

He's been working since the moment he first stepped off into the office, literally, and his only outing has been the meetup in Seattle. He goes home only to sleep, and shower if he has the time for it. Needless to say, he looks like shit. He knows he's lost a couple pounds here and there (living solely off coffee will do that to you), has the beginnings of a beard, looks generally disheveled and even has really fucking dark circles under his eyes.

He's so deep into the report he's typing that he doesn't hear his phone ring, at first. It's been three days since he called Ethan late at night, and he hasn't gotten any personal calls since then. Just calls from the office. And a lot of those. He knows he can just walk off if he wants, citing that 9 to 5 is his work time and he's not going to overstay, but Fritz Everett is an asshole and has threatened him with losing his job more than once. Which would even be okay, but he knows too much, and he's pretty sure someone will send a hit squad after him if he tries to leave.

The sudden outburst of the tinny Led Zeppelin ringtone startles him into almost spilling his stone-cold coffee all over the keyboard. He looks at the screen – it simply says Unknown, and he debates whether or not he should ignore it. It keeps on ringing all through his 25-second internal debate, and finally he picks up. "William Brandt."

"Hey." It's Ethan. "I've set up a meeting with Director Brassel today, at 11, in his office. I want you to be there."

Will sits back and runs a hand through his hair. "Uh – why?"

He can almost see Ethan's eye-roll. "Because it concerns you," he says in a very patient tone. "Be there, okay?"

He hangs up before Will can refuse. Will almost calls back and says he's not going to come, because really, what's the point, but then he decides not to. After all, Ethan's middle name is Stubborn Fucking Bastard, and he's only going to keep trying to convince Will. Will doesn't think he has the mental energy to deal with that, not right now. He'll just make up an excuse later.

He goes back to the report. He ignores the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach by the time it's 10. He ignores the nausea, the blossoming migraine, and the dizziness. The report is finished by 10:45, and he thinks maybe enough is enough, and he should go get himself something to eat. There isn't much else left to do. A couple of the junior analysts have asked him to proofread their reports, but he'll just do that later.

Subway will do, he decides as he manages to get to his feet. A nice grilled chicken sandwich with lettuce and cheese and – _oh_.

_Ow_.

The floor is a lot more comfortable than it looks, really. Bit underrated, sleeping on the floor. Will thinks he'll just close his eyes, rest them for a minute, on this nice comfortable floor...

* * *

At exactly 11 o'clock Ethan knocks on Brassel's office door, and doesn't wait for an answer. Brassel just looks up, nods and asks, "What did you do this time?"

Ethan strides purposefully up to the heavy oak desk and demands, "I want Agent William Brandt to be allowed into the field."

"Is he aware you're here?" asks Brassel, and Ethan nods. "Well, then – why isn't he here to ask himself?"

"Because he doesn't think he's a good field agent," Ethan tells him. "However, I've seen him at work, and let me tell you – he's the best."

"Better than you?" asks Brassel. It's a rhetorical question, but Ethan answers anyway.

"Possibly. Probably. Look up his file. See for yourself."

Brassel glares at Ethan, clearly not liking being told what to do. Nevertheless, he starts jabbing at his keyboard, and staring at the screen. Ethan waits patiently, if "patiently" can be construed as tapping his feet, fidgeting and being generally impatient and irritable.

Finally Brassel looks up and says, "I admit his skills, both as an analyst and field agent, are impressive. But keep in mind that IMF needs him now, and he's more useful as an analyst than a field agent."

"He's not the _only_ analyst," says Ethan irritably. "I'm sure you'll find someone else to look after things. I want him in the field. His skills are unparalleled."

Brassel considers this for a moment, before asking, "How does he get along with Agents Carter and Dunn?"

"He gets along well with them," replies Ethan. "They're more friends than teammates, really."

"And you?"

Ethan pauses, and thinks about it before saying, "We make a good team. He was crucial to the Dubai mission, even more so to the Mumbai mission. Trust me, Director, we would not have succeeded without him."

Brassel contemplates this, and then asks, "If I asked Agent Brandt to see me now, would he corroborate everything you've said?"

Ethan hesitates for a moment, but it's more than enough for Brassel. "Ethan, I can't approve him for field duty if he doesn't want to–"

"He does!" interrupts Ethan. "I'll go talk to him. In fact, I'll bring him up here now."

Brassel nods, and Ethan leaves.

* * *

The first thing Will is aware of is a horrendous headache. The second is voices, issuing from above his head.

What the fuck?

He opens his eyes, only to moan and close them again when the light proves too bright. Immediately there is quiet, and then a familiar voice hisses, "Dim the lights! Now!"

"This isn't a _bedroom lamp_, Hunt," retorts a second voice. "I can't just _dim the lights_."

"Then switch them off!"

Will has recognized the voices correctly as Ethan and Director Brassel, and he's grateful that both are whispering. He really doesn't need loud noises exacerbating his headache.

"Will," says Ethan's voice, soft and surprisingly gentle, "Will, it's okay to open your eyes now."

Will does so, opening them slowly and then blinking because well, it's dark. The only light is the little bit of sunlight that's coming in through the shutters on the window. He's laid on the couch in Brassel's office, and Ethan is standing over him. "What happened?" he asks, voice raspy and scratchy.

"Hunt found you passed out on the floor of your office," explains Brassel, who's standing by the window, arms crossed.

"Yeah, care to explain?" adds Ethan.

Shit. _Shit shit _**_shit_.** Will suddenly realizes the kind of predicament he's in. He passed out, in his office, and now he's in the Director's office. This can't be good. This can't be good at all.

"I'm all right," he tries to say, and Ethan and Brassel both snort disbelievingly. "No really, I am," he tells them, wincing as he tries to sit up. "Just – haven't been sleeping much?" He hates that it sounds like a question.

Ethan rolls his eyes, and then pushes him back down. "Don't get up," he orders. "How long have you been working?"

Will considers. The longer he's quiet, the more angry Ethan seems to get. His eyebrows are drawing close together, and he has that look in his eyes, the one that says he's going to do something stupid. When Will hasn't spoken in a minute, Ethan says, "Okay, a simpler question – when was the last time you ate?"

"Yesterday morning." Will knows he is doomed the minute he says it.

"Yesterday morning," repeats Ethan, barely restrained fury audible just below the surface calm of his voice. "The last time you ate anything... was yesterday morning. Why?"

"I was working," says Will defensively, not liking how cornered he feels. Ethan Hunt has no fucking right to act like this.

Ethan turns to Brassel. "This is madness," he says quietly, so quietly that it can only be the calm before the storm. "Look at him. They're overworking him, he's going to land up in the hospital."

"I'm fine," says Will loudly, not liking how Ethan is talking about him like he's not even there.

"No, you're not," Ethan tells him. "Come on, Will–"

"Brandt," interrupts Will, because if Ethan keeps using his first name like that, like it means something, he's going to go insane.

Ethan goes on like he hasn't even heard him. "Will, keep this up and you'll ruin yourself. That can't happen."

"Ethan, I'm fine," Will repeats, his voice rising a little. "I've already told you I was working, and that I need to do this because this is where I'm more useful right now!"

"He's right," says Brassel. "For the time being, IMF needs all its analysts. Especially Brandt."

Ethan huffs an impatient sigh. "Well, I want him in the field, because God dammit he's excellent in the field, and my team works well with him!"

"I doubt he could shoot the broad side of a barn right now," argues Brassel.

"I'm right here!" Will exclaims, irritated. "And listen, Ethan – I'm damn sure there's someone else in the entire IMF who can replace me on the team, okay? Or you could just take Luther Stickell!"

"Luther Stickell's best as a techie! We already _have_ a techie!"

"Well, then, someone else!"

Ethan decides to go for another tactic. "Didn't you tell me some time ago that you _wanted_ to be in the field?"

Will looks absolutely furious, like he can't believe Ethan's decided to bring that up _now_. "It doesn't matter what I want, okay? I'm needed here as an _analyst_, so that's what I'm going to do!"

"Shut up, both of you," says Brassel sharply, and they both snap their heads towards him. He looks annoyed at his Chief Analyst and best agent fighting like children. "I have a compromise – there's a field exam scheduled at the end of this week. If Brandt can pass that, fine. If not, an analyst he is."

"But IMF–" begins Will, and Brassel cuts him off.

"If we need you for anything that no one else can do, we will call you in," he says. "Now for God's sake go argue somewhere else, and switch the lights on on your way out."

Ethan nods, and looks expectantly at Will. "Feeling better now?"

"I'm _fine_, thank you," Will informs him irritably, before struggling to his feet... and immediately swaying. To further exacerbate his annoyance, Ethan is the one who steadies him, grabbing both his shoulders and offering support.

If Brassel were any less of a professional, he would have facedesked. "Remember, one week," he warns. "If he's not okay by the end of that, he won't be allowed into the field."

Suddenly Ethan thinks this may be a lot harder than he initially thought.

* * *

"What are you doing?" asks Will deadpan, staring at Ethan.

Ethan pauses in the act of rolling out his sleeping bag. "I'm making sleeping arrangements," he says, like it's obvious. It is.

"Why?" asks Will in the exact same tone. "You've dropped me home, thank you. Why are you still here?"

Ethan gives the room a cursory once-over. "You call this home? How long have you been living here?"

"It's been a couple of years. What's your point?"

Ethan snorts. "A couple of years. And you haven't unpacked."

"Time is a precious commodity, Ethan Hunt. Not all of us were born to defy the odds, you know." Will's tone is sarcastic, but far from being offended, Ethan smiles.

"Well, you were, weren't you?" is all he says, and goes back to unrolling his sleeping bag.

"What the fuck does that mean?" asks Will irritably. When Ethan doesn't answer, just smiles mysteriously, Will goes for an easier question. "No, seriously – _why are you here_?"

Ethan finishes setting up his "sleeping arrangements" and looks up at Will. "Well, because Director Brassel said you have a week to get better, and I'm here to make sure that you take care of yourself."

"I'm not a kid, Ethan," argues Will, annoyed. "I can take care of myself."

Ethan grins. "Yeah, I've seen that."

_Bastard_, thinks Will with a scowl. "No really, Ethan. Go home."

"Or what?" Ethan's tone is challenging.

"I'll make you," says Will simply.

"Go on, then," invites Ethan. "Make me."

Will just glares. They both know he can't walk two steps without falling, not in his current state.

"Well, if you're not going to make me, I guess I'll just make myself at home," says Ethan pleasantly, and the only reason Will doesn't punch him is because if Ethan retaliates, he'll be screwed. You know, with not being able to move and stuff.

"So, what do you want for dinner?" asks Ethan conversationally.

"What, you're going to cook for me?" Will snorts derisively.

"Yeah. Or we could order. So – what will it be?"

"I'm not hungry." And he's really not. If he eats even a bit he's going to hurl.

Ethan narrows his eyes. "The hell you're not. You're going to eat something healthy full of protein and carbs, and you're going to do it _now_."

"What are you, my mother now?" snarks Will. "You can't _make me_."

Bad idea. It turns out Ethan can, as evidenced when Ethan makes corned beef sandwiches and literally stuffs them in Will's mouth. Will tries to struggle, he really does, but it's kind of hard when a 190-pound man is sitting on your torso like it's a fucking sofa and preventing your escape.

He does manage to finish the sandwiches, though, and Ethan seems greatly satisfied by this. He then forces a glass of warm milk on Will, before nagging him into bed. The bastard's actually set his sleeping bag right besides Will's bed.

The lights have been off for ten minutes when Will speaks, his voice loud in the silence. "Ethan."

"What?" comes Ethan's voice from somewhere to his left.

"Why are you doing this?"

It's dark, but he doesn't have to see to know Ethan's rolling his eyes. "You know why – you have to pass the field exam. It's a really good deal Brassel's offered us. Be stupid not to take him up on it."

"That's not what I mean," says Will. "Why are you working so hard for _me_ to be on the team?"

"You know that too," replies Ethan. "You're smart, you're fast and you're good at kicking ass. And you get along well with Benji and Jane. We make a good – scratch that, great team, the four of us."

Will is silent for some time, considering this. Then he asks, because he truly does not understand, "Why me? I don't know if you've noticed, Ethan – I have a tendency to fuck things up."

Ethan lets out a surprised whistle. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," mumbles Will, wondering why on earth he's having a heart-to-fucking-heart with Ethan Stubborn Fucking Bastard Hunt in the middle of the fucking night. But he really needs to know.

"Will... Croatia wasn't a fuck-up." Ethan's voice is unbelievably soft, and Will feels something stick in his throat. No one has used that tone of voice with him in forever. No one has spoken to him like they actually care. He's not sure where Ethan's going with this, though, because he's pretty sure that he hasn't done anything to deserve this. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"It was," he says quietly. "Julia–"

"Is quite alive and well, I assure you," finishes Ethan. "She's _happy_, Will. She's absolutely fine. And so am I. We've both moved on, dealt with it. The only one who's still not over it... is you."

Will doesn't know what to say to that. Sure, he's glad Ethan and Julia are okay, but the very mention of Croatia still sends chills up his spine and he's not sure _how_ to deal with it. Years of guilt and self-flagellation didn't just leave a person. Even now, a little something inside him still says that Ethan is only saying so to appease him, that it is _not_, in fact, okay. It doesn't matter whether that's true or not – Will believes it.

God help him, he believes it, and he doesn't want to endanger anyone. He doesn't want to be the reason someone on the team dies, or gets hurt. He's already failed Ethan once. He's not going to put himself through it again.

"Good night," is all he says, and in the darkness, Ethan sighs.

"Good night, Will."

"Brandt."

Ethan doesn't answer.

* * *

Will feels better by the middle of the next day. Food no longer makes him nauseous, he doesn't get dizzy and his headache has receded to tolerable levels. He doesn't mention last night to Ethan, and Ethan doesn't bring it up. Like it never happened, and frankly, Will prefers it this way.

He exercises that evening. Not much – he's still not feeling that good – just a bit of a run, some push-ups and sit-ups, and some stretching. It feels good to put his muscles to use again, something he can't do in an office.

Doesn't matter. He's not going back in the field. Ethan can feed him all the protein and carbs he wants, but he's not going to pass that exam. He won't let himself.

He can't.

* * *

They spar the next day, and Ethan has Will flat on the ground in less than a minute. "What are you doing?" he huffs angrily, pinning Will to the floor by his wrists. Will doesn't struggle, and that's what irritates Ethan.

Instead of answering, Will just throws Ethan off himself, and stands. "I'm not giving that exam, Ethan," he says, plopping down on his couch.

"Yes, you are." Ethan's eyes narrow dangerously. Will's seen that look – that _you better listen the fuck up and do as I say, mister_ glint. It doesn't faze him.

He doesn't answer. Ethan tries to attack him, to get him to retort, but Will just brushes his attempts off. Finally, exasperated, Ethan stalks off, and Will is left with a sickness in his stomach that has nothing to do with his illness.

* * *

"Get in," says Ethan irritably. "Now."

Knowing there's no point in arguing, Will complies and folds himself into the front passenger seat of Ethan's Stingray. Ethan hasn't spoken to him since his fifth failed attempt at getting Will to spar, and Will hasn't tried to initiate conversation either. However, Ethan hasn't moved out either, and the tension in the air is thick enough to feel suffocating sometimes.

They drive in silence. Ethan is tense because he has no idea whether Will is going to pass the exam or not. Will doesn't care. Whatever the outcome today, at least Ethan will go home and he'll be left in peace with his guilt for company, instead of the cause of that guilt.

Ethan speaks as they're getting out of the car, once they've reached HQ. The words are quiet and toneless, but they sting Will, and they _fucking hurt_. "You are a coward, William Brandt."

Before he can demand an explanation, Ethan has stalked off. Will follows but doesn't call Ethan out on it, not wanting to create a scene.

There are a few young trainees waiting to be tested today, and two or three who are older than Will. This is the first field exam since IMF has gotten back up, and the turnout isn't much. It's only those people who have been deemed ready – the rest are still stuck in training.

Ethan leaves Will waiting outside the hall, and goes off somewhere. Will doesn't ask. Ethan's words still echo in his head, and he feels sick to the stomach. A coward. So that's what Ethan thinks he is. After _everything_, after Croatia and suffering through Julia's "death" only to find out it wasn't real, after risking his ass multiple times in Dubai and Mumbai, after saving Ethan's ass from falling off the tallest building in the world... Ethan thinks he's a coward.

Whatever. Like what Ethan says matters anyway.

Yeah, right. Who is he kidding? Of course it fucking matters, or it wouldn't sting so fucking much.

He doesn't notice his hands have curled into tight fists, not until a small stab of pain breaks through his reverie and he looks down to see that his nails have broken through the skin of his palm. He wipes his hands off on a tissue, and folds his arms.

Fucking Ethan Hunt. He should try having find out the past couple of years have been a lie. Fucking bastard.

His name is called after three kid agents, and he goes in. A surprise awaits him – his examiner is Jane. She smiles encouragingly at him and says, "Good luck."

"Thank you," he says, and begins the first round.

It shouldn't be this easy, he thinks – he hasn't given the exam in years. But his reflexes are still quick, his moves even faster, and slowly but surely Will begins to ease into combat mode – even if he doesn't want to. His body has a mind of its own, it seems.

Well, fuck it, then. He'll just have to work harder to fail.

It all goes swimmingly – until he gets to the final phase of the exam, the hand-to-hand combat. And it seems the entire universe really fucking hates him, because his opponent is Ethan Fucking Hunt.

"Did you two set this up?" he demands, looking from Jane to Ethan. "Is this some kind of joke? Is this even_ allowed_?"

"All you have to do is come out on top," says Jane, like she hasn't even heard him, like he's just another kid on his first field exam. "The more you get hit, the more marks will be deducted. The more hits you get in – the more you score. Good luck."

"Hold the fuck up," begins Will angrily, but Jane has already pressed the buzzer and is watching him expectantly.

This is the first time he's come face to face with Ethan after that morning, and the sight of his impassive face reminds him again of his words. _You are a coward, William Brandt_. He's exhausted, he's been fighting for years, his own fears and demons and thoughts, and he's just about had it. Ethan doesn't know jack shit about what he's been through. Ethan has no fucking right.

To make matters worse, Ethan speaks again. They're facing each other, five feet apart, both tense and waiting for the other to make the first move. "I meant it, _Brandt_." He says the name like it's a particularly foul word. Something coils tight inside Will. "I meant what I said. You _are_ a fucking coward." He finally throws the first punch, a piece of cake that Will dodges easily. "Like you're the only agent who's ever had to make a hard call. Like you're the only agent who's had a bad mission. How many of them are wallowing in it like you are, huh? That's right – none."

There is red lining the edges of Will's vision. He tries to control his anger, but he's failing and honestly – he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to hold it in this time. He can't remember the last time he's felt this furious.

"You have no idea what I've been through," he says, voice low and deadly as he counters a kick that could have smashed his jaw.

"Oh yeah?" challenges Ethan. "I was _there_, remember? I was there, and fuck, but forgive me for thinking that it was hard on me as well." He attacks again, is countered again. "I've moved on, Brandt. Julia has moved on. Fuck, why haven't _you_?"

Will doesn't answer, just watches Ethan. Jane is watching both of them, morbidly fascinated and curious. The score sheet in front of her lies forgotten, the pencil having clattered to the floor long ago.

"I'll tell you why, Will," says Ethan, and he looks like he's actually enjoying this. Will wants to punch that fucking smirk off his face. "Because you're too cowardly, too selfish to think of anyone but yourself. 'IMF needs me', yeah _right_. Why don't you just say that you don't give a fuck about anyone but yourself? All you want to do is wallow in your own misery, blame yourself, like you're the only one who–"

He is cut off by Will's roar of anger, and before he can stop himself Will flies at Ethan, punching and kicking at everything he can get at. Ethan counters him the first few times, but soon Will has the upper hand and is backing him into a corner. He can hear his blood pounding through his ears, can _feel_ the adrenalin coursing through his veins, the rush of the battle and the absolute _injustice_ of it all, the bloody _unfairness_, because selfish is the last thing he is, a coward is the last thing he is, and Ethan doesn't and will never ever understand what he's been through, even before Croatia–

Well fuck it, then, he's just going to _make_ Ethan understand, he's going to make Ethan _pay_ for what he said, because it's not the truth, and it hurts, it shouldn't but it does, it hurts so fucking much and Will hates it, hates himself and Ethan and everything in his life that has led up to this moment. Ethan Hunt doesn't get to tell him what he is, he doesn't have the fucking right to just waltz into his life and act like they're friends, because they're _not_, they're not and Will doesn't care what it takes, he's going to fucking get Ethan back for this–

Dimly he is aware of someone shouting, and the rushing sound in his ears fades to a gentle whisper. "Stop!" Jane is screaming, "stop, Will, _please_!" He looks down to find that he has Ethan pinned against the wall, fist raised to hit him one more time. Ethan's lip is split, his shirt is torn and he's sporting an excellent shiner, but otherwise seems pretty much okay. That is – until Will sees the way he's holding himself, and realizes he might have cracked a rib. Or two. Or five.

He backs away wordlessly, feeling Ethan's burning gaze on him. Ethan's face is still impassive, and Will has no idea how he's done what he's done. He's beat up Ethan Hunt. _How_? This is Ethan Hunt – he could probably kill people in his sleep. And Will has beat him up.

He looks down to see his own knuckles split wide open and bleeding, the bruising around them red and angry. His own lip is split, and he wipes some blood off it before glancing at Jane. She looks terrified, and Will realizes that she's scared of him. Jane Carter, badass IMF agent and one of the hardiest people he knows – and she is looking at him like he might eat her alive any second.

He can't take it – he runs. He runs out of the double doors without looking back, and he runs all the way back home. And he has never hated himself as much as he does now.

* * *

Ethan rings the doorbell once, twice, but when no one answers he lets himself in. He supposes he deserves it, what with having baited Will like that earlier on. It worked though, it worked brilliantly, and when he thinks of it that way, he can't bring himself to regret it.

"Will?" he calls out as he makes his way into the living room. His shiner looks better now, after he's put some ice on it, and his ribs are only cracked, not broken, and should be good as new soon enough in time for the mission. For all of Will's rage, he didn't do much damage. "Will?" he tries again. "You passed, Will. You passed the exam."

There is no reply, but Ethan knows Will's home. The TV is running on mute, and the coffee maker is switched on. It's just a matter of finding where Will is.

He makes his way through the kitchen and bathrooms, and finally finds Will in his bedroom. The younger agent is sitting on his bed, elbows on knees and his head in his hands, and he's shaking so hard that Will can see it from across the room.

"You've passed," Ethan tries again, ignoring the way his stomach drops. "I've talked to Director Brassel, and he's approved you for duty. Jane didn't mention the, uh, little incident, though."

Will doesn't even seem to have heard him. His hands are clutching desperately at his hair, and if Ethan didn't know better he'd think Will was having a nervous breakdown.

"Will?" he says cautiously, approaching him. "Will, are you all right?" Stupid question, he knows. He also knows that he's the reason Will is going through this, whatever this is.

He sits down next to Will on the bed. When Will still doesn't acknowledge his presence, he warily nudges Will's shoulder.

"Get the fuck away from me." Will's voice is hoarse and broken, and suddenly Ethan hates himself.

"Will, about today," he begins, and Will looks up. The look in his eyes silences Ethan. Will looks like he has just lost everything in the world that he loves.

"Just leave, Ethan," he says, sounding too tired to shout. His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, and Ethan knows he's been crying. Fuck. "Go. I can't – I – I'm not – just go, Ethan."

"Look–"

"No," interrupts Will forcefully. "Look, I _know_, okay? I know I'm a coward, I know I'm a selfish bitch, you don't have to fucking rub it in, okay? You got what you wanted. I hope you're happy. Just – please. Go. Leave me alone." His voice breaks on the last word.

Fuck fuckity fuck. Ethan has no idea how the fuck to erase what he's said, because– "I didn't mean it, Will. I only said it to get a rise out of you, to get you to fight. I _needed_ you to fight, Will, you were so apathetic and trust me, if there was some other way, I'd never had done this to you."

"Doesn't matter." Will's laugh is bitter and mirthless. "You were right."

"Fuck," swears Ethan, "I wasn't, Will. I didn't mean it, and I don't believe a word of it. I _know_ it was a dick move, okay? But it was the only thing I had left. It was the only way I could get you to fight."

Will curses, nearly rips out his own hair. "Fuck, Ethan – _why_?" he demands angrily. "Why? Why couldn't you just accept that it was my choice? Why couldn't you let me just do what I wanted to?"

"Because you were _wrong_!" Well, two can play at the shouting game, decides Ethan. "You _know_ you were wrong, Will! I had to make you see that! I don't know what you think you are, but you're the only agent I want on my team and I am not taking no for an answer, okay?"

"Well, fuck you!" yells Will. "Fuck you, Ethan, fuck you and your self-righteousness and your _I'm always right because I'm Ethan Fucking Hunt_ shit! _Fuck you_!"

"Why?" challenges Ethan, quite aware that he may get beat up – again. He doesn't care though – if it gets Will to snap out of whatever state he's currently in, it's worth it. He can't stand it, can't stand seeing Will Brandt shake and cry, knowing it's his fault, he's the one who broke Will. "Why, Will? Because I _was_ right this time?" Will opens his mouth to protest, but Ethan goes right on, voice rising with every word, "How many times do I have to fucking tell you that Croatia wasn't your fucking fault, huh, Will? _I already knew what was going to happen, dammit, I was prepared!_ It doesn't matter what choice you made because the outcome would have been the same! Why the fuck won't you understand that?"

Will gets to his feet, eyes blazing. "How dare you?" he screams. "How _dare_ you decide who I am, who the _fuck_ gave you that right? You have _no_ idea, no fucking idea what I've been through, how _dare _you call me a coward!"

"I've already told you I didn't mean it!" yells Ethan, also rising. "Why can't you understand, Will? Are you deaf, or just plain stupid? Croatia – wasn't – your – fault," he enunciates each word clearly, "and – I – don't – blame – you, you stupid fucking bastard! What I said – I'm not proud of it, okay? You think I don't hate myself for having said that? I _know_ I was wrong, dammit! But it was the only way to get you to _fight_, because I need you, I need you on my fucking team!"

Will is shocked into silence at the admission, at the word _need_, because Ethan Hunt doesn't _need_ anything. He takes whatever he wants. He doesn't need things, and the fact that he's even admitted it out loud...

"Fuck," swears Will quietly, his voice more of a sob than anything else, "fuck you, Ethan, really. Fuck you." There is no venom in the words – all the fight has drained out of Will, leaving him exhausted and feeling like someone has just filled the void inside him with lead.

"I know," replies Ethan softly, hazarding another touch to Will's shoulder. This time Will doesn't flinch or hit him, and Ethan takes that as a win. "I know," he repeats, and gently guides Will back to the bed, and sits beside him. "I'm sorry, Will."

Will does not reply, just buries his face in his hands and stays very still for a long time. When Ethan is quite sure he's not going to say anything else, he sighs and stands. "I'll leave, then. You – uh – you take care, okay, Will?"

He's at the door when Will responds. "Aren't you going to stay and make sure I eat properly, you motherfucker?" He is not smiling, but there is a glint in his eyes.

Ethan laughs, despite himself. "Only if you promise not to kill me," he says mock-seriously.

"Killing my team leader. I'd be kicked out for that, for sure."

"And I get to call you Will."

There is a sigh. Then, "Fine."

It takes a moment for the words to register, and when they do, Ethan smiles. Then he grows serious again and says, "For the record, Will, I _am_ sorry. I know what I said was – well, truly horrible. Please just know that I didn't mean it. I don't believe that about you. Croatia and Dubai and Mumbai – it all just proves that you're the opposite of what I said. You know that, right?"

Will huffs out a sigh and bites out, "Are we going to end this conversation or not?"

Ethan nods. "Okay, then."

Fifteen minutes later, lying in the dark wide awake with sleep nowhere nearby, Will speaks again. "By the way – the next time you want me angry, you can just trash my car."

"Noted," chuckles Ethan. He knows that this means Will has accepted his apology, but he also knows that it doesn't change what Will's been through in the last few hours. He's not sure there's anything that can erase that self-doubt and misery from Will's mind, anything that will make Will forget what Ethan said, but he can try. He can try to make it up, to make Will realize that he is so much more than he thinks. And dammit, he's going to.

William Brandt is still a mystery, but Ethan thinks he's already beginning to solve this one.

* * *

**As always, feedback is welcome :)**

**-Remy**


	3. iii

**Hello, everyone :) hope I wasn't gone long enough to be forgotten :p**

**This chapter took me an _inhumanly_ long time, but I'm satisfied with how it turned out. I hope you guys like it too.**

**Thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed, favorited and followed :)**

* * *

**Edit (14th Feb 2014): ****I'd forgotten to add a trigger warning, and the wonderful Lily reminded me. Thanks, bro. I remember I added one over at AO3 but I must have forgotten here o.o**

**TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of child abuse, sexual abuse and alcoholism  
**

* * *

**The Past Isn't Always in the Past**

* * *

Will Brandt doesn't do birthdays.

Even as a kid he hadn't celebrated his birthday, hadn't wanted to. He'd hated it back then, tried to pretend that it was just another day, nothing special. Now he's just indifferent, and it really is just another day. That said, he doesn't expect anyone else to remember his birthday, or to even know it. It's right there in his file, but it's just a trivial detail, a tiny date to skim over and be forgotten in favor of other important information.

Just like any other day, he wakes up alone in his apartment, barely furnished. Everything is still in boxes, like Ethan's pointed out. He doesn't see the point in unpacking things he doesn't need everyday, but he can't bring himself to throw out his old things either. He likes to think of himself as a logical man, not fazed by emotions where they don't count, but something inside him makes him want to hang on. He just puts it down to anomalies in his system and moves on to the next important issue.

Breakfast is just a sandwich and coffee, and it takes him all of four minutes to finish. He puts the plate and mug in the sink and puts his blazer on, briefcase waiting by the door. After a cursory once-over he locks the apartment and goes down to the parking, where his 1969 Maserati Ghibli awaits. The silvery blue car is the only indulgence in his otherwise ordered, organized (and quite frankly, boring) life.

Missions are few and far between these days – it seems that the world's lowlife has decided to take a vacation. Or maybe it's just that he finds them easy, quick to finish and already forgotten by the time the team boards their jet back home. He feels more and more like a rookie with every passing mission, and it's not just him, either – Ethan is extra-irritable, pulls off dangerous stunts where they're not required at all, and twitches in annoyance every time someone mentions the "good ol' days"; Jane is trying and failing to repress violent urges, and more often than not ends up beating the shit out of the dummies at the Rec Center in HQ; and Benji is just Benji, cracking jokes and watching his geek movies. Will doubts a hurricane could faze him when he's immersed in _Lord of the Rings_ marathons.

The drive from his apartment to HQ doesn't take more than twenty minutes on a good day, and that's why he's chosen this particular apartment. Work has been his priority for a long time, and his entire life is structured around it. He supposes it's a good thing IMF won't let him leave, because he's not sure he'll know what to do with his life if there's no IMF in it.

The office is deserted when he walks in, just two or three junior analysts already typing away on their computers. The place has taken on a permanent coffee-ish smell, probably because of the copious amounts of the substance being ingested within its walls. Will walks to his desk and sits, nodding at the other three and starting up his computer.

Ethan comes in around two and a half hours later. He walks in like he owns the place and sits down in the chair in front of Will's desk. Will pauses his typing and looks up. "What are you doing here?" he asks.

Ethan grins at him. "Hello to you too," he replies. "I was in HQ to talk to Director Brassel about something, figured I'd drop in on you on my way out. You all right?"

Will nods. "I'm fine."

"Good," says Ethan, and they lapse into a somewhat awkward silence. It's been a few months since the field test incident, and they haven't spoken of it since. In fact, Will would be quite content to forget the entire fiasco if it isn't for Ethan, who keeps apologizing, not with words but with small, trivial gestures that wouldn't mean much if Will didn't know what was up.

Sometimes Ethan brings him coffee at work, on days when he has no reason to be in HQ. Sometimes he brings lunch. Sometimes he physically drags Will away from his desk so that they can go out for a walk. Will would rather die than admit it, but he's a little bit grateful for the last. He needs the breathers, and Ethan's not such bad company when he's not in danger of dying from some stupid stunt.

"So," says Ethan at length, "what are you working on?"

"Just a report," answers Will absently, still typing. "The Secretary wanted to see something about that mission that rookie team came back from, a week ago."

"Wasn't that the team that screwed up?" asks Ethan, more to make small talk than because he's really interested. Also, he likes Will's voice. He's not going to ever admit it, but it's got this quiet yet firm undertone to it. And sometimes Will's voice gives a lot more hints about his feelings than his face does. Ethan doesn't think even Will knows how expressive he can be. He doesn't think Will even realizes.

"Not really," Will replies. "It wasn't so much a screw-up as an intelligence issue. Some of the intel was incorrect, and that led to a messy plan and even messier extraction. It's typical, especially for rookies, but Everett's not so happy. He's still chewing their heads off, and now that he's discovered it was an intel error he's even angrier. We've had thirteen tantrums just this week, and it's only Wednesday."

"You've been counting?" asks Ethan with a little laugh.

Will nods seriously. "There's a betting pool to see if he can cross thirty."

"Normally I'd ask who died and made him Secretary, but," Ethan says, shrugging and choosing not to complete the sentence.

"Mm," hums Will absently. The Secretary's death is still a sore point with him. The old man had been good to Will, had rooted for him when no one else had. His loss had been hard on Will, still is. Not that he lets it show - it's time he moved on.

"Hang on." Ethan sits up straight as something comes to mind. "When you say it was an intel error - he's not chewing _your _head off, is he?"

Will chooses to remain silent. Yes, Everett's being an even bigger asshole to him than usual, but there's no need to let Ethan know.

Of course, his silence is the only answer Ethan needs. "I'm going to go have a talk with that man," he says angrily, standing.

Will's head snaps away from his computer. "Don't," he says at once. "Ethan, _sit down_."

Ethan doesn't comply.

"Ethan, _please_," says Will, and Ethan is astounded at the hint of pleading in his voice. It is that, more than anything else, that drives him to listen to Will.

"It's not your fault!" he says the moment he's seated. "You didn't even have anything to do with that mission!"

"But I'm Chief Analyst, and Everett needs a scapegoat," says Will, and Ethan hates how matter-of-fact he sounds. "In any case, the error's been fixed, and this report is the last we're going to discuss that mission."

Ethan doesn't look convinced. In fact, he still looks like he's going to bolt out of his chair any moment.

"Ethan, I'm fine," sighs Will. "Really, I'm used to it. And in any case, I can look after myself. I can fight my own battles."

"I know," says Ethan. "But it's not fair, Will."

"Deal with it," suggests Will, going back to his typing. "I am."

Ethan just huffs.

They sit in silence for a while, the only sounds those of Will's keyboard. Ethan doodles on Will's stack of Post-ItTM notes, decidedly bored. Will doesn't get why Ethan doesn't just go home, but he's too busy to comment on it.

Twenty minutes later he finally saves the report and shuts down his computer, and asks, "So what are you really doing here?"

Ethan stops his doodling. "I figured we'd have lunch."

"Together?" Will asks before he can stop himself.

Ethan snorts. "No, I'll drop you off at one place, and go off to another, and when you're done I'll pick you up."

Will rolls his eyes. "Don't be such an ass."

"Don't ask stupid questions then," replies Ethan with a smirk. Will resists the urge to throw a paperweight at him, but he can't stop a fond smile. Stupid Ethan with his stupid lunch routines and his stupid insistence to include Will.

"What are we waiting for?" asks Will, grabbing his jacket. "Let's go."

Lunch, as usual, is a simple affair. Ethan chooses a good place, they order and make small talk. Benji's invited them all over for dinner the next week, and they discuss that briefly before moving on to work topics.

"Everett is a bigger asshole than people give him credit for," Will tells Ethan, waving his fork around animatedly as he talks. Ethan watches in fascination even as he tries to stay out of the way of the crazy fork; if he could watch Will all the time he'd never be bored. Will doesn't talk much, but once you got him started he doesn't shut up either, and Ethan finds that interesting.

(Very interesting, in fact. Not that _that_ thought is ever going to see the light of day.

Will's not going to admit it to anyone either, but he actually likes these days, when Ethan visits or takes him out for lunch. It makes a nice break from the monotony of the office, and Will can do with a break every now and then. Sometimes the office makes him go crazy, especially Fritz Everett and that stick up his ass and his penchant for making Will's life hell.)

"Yeah, I've heard," is Ethan's casual answer, and Will takes it as an invitation to go on.

"You think he was an asshole this week? You didn't see him a month ago. He nearly made this girl cry because her report wasn't the right font. I am not even joking. He yelled for twenty minutes about how much he hates Calibri and wants everything to be in Times. Like, who even gives a fuck? I'd proofread that report and it was perfect. And the week before that he nearly bit off a junior's head because the guy had found himself a boyfriend from IT. You'd think he'd be less of an asshole and more of a..."

And Will goes on, and Ethan listens, because he likes Will's voice and he likes it when Will talks.

* * *

He drops Will back off at the office after that, with a stern, "Be home by 6 or I'll kick your ass first and then Everett's." Will just grins and rolls his eyes - Ethan says it every time he comes over, and Will has just given up now and he listens, because he has no doubt Ethan _will_ go and kick Everett's ass, which isn't good for his job security. Or Ethan's, for that matter.

Will works on a couple more things, helps out a few juniors and begins packing up at 4:45, tired. If he has to look at another report he's going to kill someone.

He reflects on things on the drive back home. The field test fiasco should have screwed everything up, should have made Will want to kill Ethan every time he saw him - but it didn't. For a while there Will did hate Ethan, but he got over it, accepted that Ethan had done what he had to. Didn't mean he approved, but once he began to ease back into life in the field it wasn't so bad. Still took some time to forgive Ethan, but somewhere between the coffee and lunch and stuff Will realized he wasn't angry anymore.

Traffic's a bit slow this time of day, when everyone's returning from work and heading home. Will waits in his car for the roads to clear, absently observing the impatient yet resigned behavior of his fellow people on the road, and thinking, of all things, about Ethan.

He can't pinpoint the exact moment he and Ethan became friends, but if he has to choose he'll pick the first day Ethan arrived with lunch. He'd been working long and hard in the office, and around 1 PM Ethan just dropped in carrying a big brown bag. "Lunch," he explained when Will looked at him askance. "I figured you'd be hungry."

"Thank you," said Will, still a bit suspicious. Ethan bringing him lunch...? Something had to be up.

He figured it out halfway through his plate of restaurant-made spaghetti and meatballs. Ethan had made no secret of his guilt over the field test incident, or as Will thought of it, the Fucked-Up Ass Test (FUAT for short), and maybe this was his way of apologizing. He waited for Ethan to bring it up, but to his relief Ethan didn't, and they finished their lunch in companionable silence.

"Thank you," Will said again when he finished, and Ethan gave him the infamous Hunt smile.

"You're welcome, Will," he said. "You should take some time off, you know. Every once in a while. It'll be good for you."

Will just nodded and forced a smile back. "So - did you have something to do, here in HQ?"

"Nope," said Ethan lightly, "I was just hungry and then I thought you probably are too, because you're so busy all the time. I only ever see you on missions."

"It was... nice," Will said, gesturing towards the empty paper plate.

"I wouldn't mind bringing you something to eat every now and then," replied Ethan.

"No, it's okay," Will said hastily, but he knew there was no point. Ethan was going to do it anyway.

The next day Ethan grabbed him just after eleven, and forcibly dragged him for a walk that Will actually ended up enjoying. Funny how things were - he'd spent two years hoping he would never face Ethan Hunt again, and now he looked forward to his company.

So yeah, Will would say that's the moment he and Ethan became friends.

It's 5:45 PM when he finally gets home. He parks his Ghibli in the garage and walks to the elevator, thinking about getting himself some nice strong coffee and a microwaved meal. He nods at the landlord, who's taken to roaming the halls in his underwear for no reason that's known to mankind.

He's at the end of his hallway when he hears voices coming from his apartment, seemingly arguing. Immediately he tenses - he can take burglars, but he's unarmed and tired. The safest bet would be to call for backup, but he'll probably be already robbed blind in the time it takes for anyone to get there, and so he decides to go it alone.

His stance immediately changing, adapting for battle, he makes his way stealthily to his apartment door. The lock doesn't look jimmied, but that's not to say it wasn't picked. Quietly he turns the doorknob and pushes the door open, fully expecting to find someone in a ski mask carrying off his furniture–

"SURPRISE!"

The roar is unexpected and somewhat disorienting. Will blinks and finds himself facing his team, all of them dressed nicely and holding up a banner that screams _**HAPPY BIRTHDAY, WILL**_ in bright red colors. Benji's grinning from ear to ear, Jane's smiling too, and Ethan is holding an honest-to-God bright blue balloon in his hand.

"What's going on?" asks Will stupidly, stumbling in and setting his keys down on the dresser in the hallway.

"It's your birthday, stupid," says Jane, still smiling. She comes forward and hugs him and kisses his cheek. "So – happy birthday."

"You didn't have to do this," Will protests even as he hugs Jane back. "Really, there isn't any need-"

"Yes there is," insists Benji. "It's your _birthday_, Will – that warrants a celebration, mate."

"Why?" asks Will, patting Benji's back as the tech hugs him. "Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful, I really am, this is great, but – I haven't celebrated my birthday my entire life. No one even _knows_ what day it's on. How did you–?"

"I looked up your file," says Ethan with a smile. He doesn't hug Will, and Will is kind of grateful. The world would probably skid to a halt if Ethan hugs him. He doesn't think anyone needs that kind of disaster. Wars and shit.

"So you figured you'd throw me a party?" asks Will, somewhat incredulously.

Ethan claps him on the shoulder. "It's not really a party," he says. "Just the four of us, cake and food. No booze."

"No booze?" repeats Will, wondering how it's even considered a party without alcohol.

"No booze," confirms Jane. "Benji's a lightweight and while the entertainment would do us good, we all have work tomorrow and we can't afford to get hungover."

Will kind of hates it, but she's right. Logic sucks, sometimes.

It's actually kind of nice, though, his surprise party. He tries to control his emotions, to not feel a little overwhelmed, but it's hard. No one has ever bothered to remember his birthday, or even _know_ it, let alone celebrate it.

The cake is chocolate topped with vanilla, Will's favorite (though how his teammates know this he can't figure out), and soon enough it's smeared all over Will's face and Benji's clothes, courtesy of a food fight started by Benji. Ethan laughs and joins in, while Jane watches from the sidelines. They stop when there is more cake on their skin than in their mouths.

"Whoo, that was good," cheers Benji, as he makes for the bathroom. "We should do that again sometime."

"No," says Jane at once. "Grow up, Benji." But she's grinning, and so no one takes her seriously.

She cleans up the kitchen while Ethan and Will wait in line for the bathroom, and after everyone's done they settle down for sodas and whatever's on TV. Jane takes the single-seater and Benji settles on the ground, leaving the double-seater for Ethan and Will. Will supposes it should be awkward, considering how this is literally the first time in his life that he's sitting down with _friends_ in this manner, but it's really not, and he's grateful for that. It's nice to know that there are people who do enjoy his company, even when it's forced upon them (like on missions).

_Breaking Bad_ is on and Will is soon absorbed, even though this is the first time he's watching it. So absorbed, in fact, that when Ethan reaches out towards him he automatically grabs Ethan's wrist and makes a twisting motion. Ethan swears.

"For the love of God, Will! _Stop it!"_

"Sorry," mutters Will even as Benji and Jane shush them. "You just startled me."

Ethan just huffs, but Will can tell he's not mad. "Anyway," says Ethan, "I was just trying to tell you that you've got a bit of cake here." He reaches out and wipes the aforementioned bit of cake off the tip of Will's nose. The unexpected contact making him freeze, Will can only watch as Ethan wipes his fingers on a tissue and then uses the tissue to wipe the remainder off Will's face.

"What are you _doing_?" Will finally croaks.

"Getting rid of the cake," answers Ethan nonchalantly, like he does this everyday. Will is beginning to hate his guts a _lot_.

"I could have done it myself!"

"I know."

And that's it. With that, Ethan turns back to the show, and Will is left to mentally curse himself and Ethan both. Ethan Hunt is going to drive him insane, he's sure of it.

Benji and Jane leave when the show ends – they've all still got work tomorrow and it's getting late. They do look like they've enjoyed themselves, and Will is glad. This is the first time in his life he's celebrated his birthday, and it's been amazing. It's a bit overwhelming, in fact. He's still not used to the idea of friends, especially friends who do this kind of thing.

He sees Jane and Benji off and returns to his kitchen to find Ethan loading dishes into the dishwasher, looking for all the world like he owns the place.

"What are you doing?"

Ethan looks up casually and grins. "Doing the dishes."

"I can see that," replies Will, endeavoring to keep his tone the same shade of casual. "_Why_ are you doing the dishes?"

"Because they're dirty."

Will almost hits his own forehead. Ethan is making him feel like an idiot. So he sighs and shoves Ethan away, loading the rest of the dishes and setting the wash cycle. "Why haven't you left yet?" he asks when he's done, putting leftovers in the fridge and making his way back to the living-room.

"Don't feel like it," replies Ethan casually, and settles on the couch they'd previously been occupying.

There is a lot more free space available now that Benji and Jane have left, but Will still goes and sits besides Ethan. He doesn't know why, just that it's silly and stupid, but he can't make himself get up and sit somewhere else.

The silence gets awkward after a while (at least for Will; Ethan is sitting perfectly at ease, watching the TV on mute), and so he clears his throat and says, "So, um. Thank you. For today. It was... nice."

Ethan smiles at him. "Glad you think so. I was a bit worried you might kill one of us. Probably it would be me."

"No," mutters Will, rubbing the back of his neck. "I really wouldn't."

"You looked really surprised to see us," remarks Ethan. "Though I suppose that was kind of the point."

Another silence follows, and this time Ethan looks awkward too. Will feels a stab of glee at Ethan Hunt being uncomfortable, but it's squashed because well, he's also feeling uncomfortable.

Suddenly Ethan asks, "What did you mean, when you said you'd never celebrated your birthday before?"

"Just that," replies Will, wondering why the fuck, out of everything he's said, _that's_ the thing that grabs Ethan's attention.

"Are you serious?" asks Ethan incredulously. "Not even that embarrassing party parents throw their kids when they turn eleven, with all the gushing and stuff?"

Will snorts, a bitter, mirthless sound. "No, Ethan, because with the parents I've got, I'm lucky I'm even here at all, and not, you know, dead at birth."

"What does that mean?" asks Ethan, looking a little confused, and Will hates him a little for being so dense sometimes.

"It means, Ethan," he begins, wondering why he's even telling Ethan all this, "that my parents don't give a shit about me, and honestly, I'm lucky I ended up here and not a crack whore or something."

When Ethan doesn't reply, just looks shocked, Will sighs and says, "Look, just forget it, okay?"

"No." Ethan finally finds his voice. "No, Will, how can I forget it just like that? You can't just tell me something like that and then tell me to forget it!"

"Look, what do you want to know?" asks Will, a bit irritably. "Yeah, so I didn't exactly have a great childhood. Yeah, my parents were assholes. But I'm fine, aren't I? I think I could have turned out worse."

He stands to leave, but Ethan grabs his wrist. "Will," he says softly. "Sit. Please," he adds, and Will acquiesces.

"Ethan," he sighs. "I know you're curious, but there really isn't much I can tell you that isn't already in my file."

"I didn't look at that part of your file," Ethan tells him. "It seemed too... personal."

Will nods. "It is."

There is a pause, in which Will plays with the hem of his shirt, and Ethan wonders if there is any way he can ask Will without seeming intrusive or insensitive. He's spared the issue when Will asks, "Do you still want to know?"

"If it's okay with you," is Ethan's cautious answer. "It's up to you," he adds. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"But you'll probably go and read my file," Will points out.

"Not if you don't want me to," says Ethan, and Will is surprised. Usually Ethan just goes after whatever he wants. The fact that he's choosing to respect Will's wishes and privacy means a lot, it means that Ethan cares enough to defer to Will on this one.

It means a lot.

Will finally sits, and begins his story. "I was born at home. There was no midwife, and from what I've managed to piece together, it was a risky birth. I almost died.

"From the moment I was born my mother hated me. For some illogical reason she blamed me for the difficulties in birth, even though," he huffs a mirthless laugh, "I'm the one who almost didn't make it. My dad had never been in favor of having children in the first place, and he hated me the moment he saw me. Then again, he hates everyone, probably even my mother. In fact, you could say my birth was a good thing - it united them in their hatred of me."

The worst part is that Ethan doesn't even think that Will's exaggerating. No one could lie or exaggerate so smoothly while looking so... resigned. Even Will is not that good an actor. Besides, Will offered to tell him, so Will probably isn't going to lie.

In any case, he is quite familiar with Will's tell (he bites his lip in this really adorable way when he lies), and it's not showing right now.

Also, he is just going to ignore the fact that he called Will adorable.

"After I was born," Will says, and Ethan snaps out of it, "my parents didn't even bother to raise me. One of the neighbors looked after me until I was old enough, and after that I mostly took care of myself. I managed to beg and plead my way into a job when I was thirteen, mowing lawns and delivering papers and washing cars, stuff like that. At school I didn't have any friends, probably because all I ever did was study. There really wasn't much time for birthdays, you see, and in any case who would want to celebrate it?

"I made enough money to apply for college, and the only time I had an actual conversation with my dad - if it can be called that - is when I told him I was leaving. He - he didn't take it very well." Will stops, and runs a hand through his hair. Suddenly he looks completely exhausted, like the memory itself is draining him.

"He yelled for ten minutes before realizing I wasn't listening, and that's when things got nasty. He'd been drinking - he spends more time drunk than awake - and he threw the bottle at me. I moved out of the way. My mom stood at the side, not doing anything to stop him. Hell, she was encouraging him.

"The noise attracted the neighbors, and Mrs. Turner from next door - the one who'd raised me - she came over to see what was going on. She was old by then, and her youngest son had just graduated from college. She tried to reason with my mother, and when that didn't work, she tried to talk to my dad." Will smiled, a hollow, dead movement of his facial muscles. "You can see why that turned out to be a bad idea."

Ethan doesn't say anything, can't. He has no idea how to respond. Will intertwines his fingers and stares at them for some time, looking lost, and then suddenly shifts so that his head is in his hands and his elbows are resting on his thighs.

"The local police had had their eye on my dad for a while now, thanks to the teachers at school. Every time I'd show up with a bruise or a cut they'd just know it was him, and they called Social Services a lot, but my parents always managed to wave them off. They knew what was going on, but they couldn't prove it.

"Anyway - when the police arrived to find my dad holding a broken bottle of whiskey and Mrs. Turner bleeding out - an old, helpless lady - they didn't even wait. They arrested him right then, right there. My mom screamed at them not to take him away, because no matter how abusive the old bastard is she can't live without him. My mother wasn't really in her right mind then - and by that I mean she was stark raving mad - and so I was the one who had to testify against my dad in court. They ruled it as manslaughter, because this was the Bible belt, Mrs. Turner was black and segregation may have been over but discrimination wasn't. He got 12 years. Of course, my mother blamed me, but I'd already gotten out as soon as they told me I was no longer needed in court.

"College was fine. I breezed through because it was all easy. I'm not going to summarize my grades or anything; you probably already know from my file. I'd gotten picked up for a job by IMF before I graduated. If you saw my file you'd thing college was the best thing to ever happen to me.

"You'd be wrong."

Ethan tenses, wonders how things can possibly get worse. He doesn't have to think long; Will goes on, "A week before graduation I ran into some of my dad's old friends. They were all like him, and they were pretty mad at me because their buddy was in jail and they perceived it to be my fault. I tried to escape before they could see me, but I couldn't and they cornered me in the woods near my college.

"I don't really remember what happened that night. It's all really blurry, and honestly, I don't WANT to remember. I woke up the next morning in the hospital, and they told me I'd been sexually assaulted. Multiple times."

Ethan looks up at Will, feeling shocked and sick. Will's face is expressionless, like he's telling Ethan about someone else, someone who's not sitting next to him on the couch holding his head in his hands. Ethan represses the urge to reach out and touch him, jolt him out of whatever dark place his mind has forced him into.

"The police came to see me too," Will says, and Ethan forces himself to pay attention and not continue staring at Will, who's sitting back now. There is something stuck in his throat, and he can't do anything but listen in fresh horror. "Apparently I'd fought back, hard, and one of them was dead. Two were injured severely but they pulled through. Only one got out unscathed, and that's because the asshole ran the moment I began to fight.

"The cops told me they weren't pressing charges, since it was self-defense, but also that they couldn't prosecute the guys for what they did. Getting a conviction in a case of male-on-male rape was unheard of. I had to let it go.

"Anyway, a week later I was out of there as well and working for IMF. I trained as a field agent - and the rest you already know."

A long silence follows the end of Will's story. Sickened, Ethan wonders what to say, or whether saying something will even make a difference. Lines like _I'll always be there for you _would just sound too fake and insincere, but there really is nothing else, is there?

Finally Ethan slowly extends his hand, and lays it over Will's. He doesn't say a word, and Will doesn't react to his actions. They sit there in absolute silence, Will's hand cold and slightly trembling under Ethan's warm, firm one, both of them not looking at each other.

Ethan's not sure how long it's been when Will speaks again, his voice slightly hoarse and shaking. "So... there you have it."

"I'm sorry," Ethan says after a second. "I shouldn't have made you tell me."

"You didn't," Will reminds him. "It was my choice."

Another silence follows, and after Will's voice it's absolutely deafening. Then Ethan says, "Would you mind if I stayed, tonight? It would put me at ease."

"How come?" Will's voice is still carefully devoid of any emotion.

"I... I don't want to leave you alone right now," Ethan admits. "It just wouldn't feel right. Besides, I think it would be better for you if I stay."

Will doesn't reply to that, just nods. Ethan already knows where everything is in Will's apartment - he can find himself a pillow and blanket and sleep on the couch. He's done it a couple times before, even after the FUAT.

They sit in a considerably easier silence for some more time, and Ethan realizes that Will hasn't taken his hand out from under Ethan's. The thought encourages him, and he shifts his hand so that it's gripping Will's tightly. Will tenses for a moment, and Ethan is fully prepared to be asked to leave, but then Will squeezes Ethan's finger lightly and sits still again.

They retire for bed some time later - neither is sure exactly how long has passed. The clock on the wall reads ten past midnight, and Will remembers he has work tomorrow.

"Don't," says Ethan when he sees Will's expression of slight panic, "don't worry about work, Will. Call in sick tomorrow."

"I can't–" begins Will, but Ethan cuts him off.

"You need the rest," he says gently, and Will gives in.

* * *

Ethan wakes up in the middle of the night, his bladder making its presence (and purpose) known. He gets off the couch and makes his way to the bathroom, passing Will's room on the way. It's quiet, and he's glad that Will's asleep.

He's wrong though; when he exits the bathroom five minutes later he can hear the sound of muffled sobbing coming through the door. Clearly Will's past is catching up, and for once in his life (but not the first time when it comes to Will), Ethan doesn't know what to do. He doesn't want to intrude, not after everything Will's told him, feeling that this would be just too much invasion of privacy. Finally he just goes back to his couch, chest feeling heavy as lead and heart feeling like it's stuck in his throat again. Not for the first time, he wishes there's something he can do to help Will.

He doesn't sleep the rest of the night.

* * *

**Feedback is welcome :)**


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